


Phantom pain (Natasha)

by Anuna, Koren M (CyberMathWitch)



Series: The Red Thread [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruises, Drugged Character, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implications of child abuse, Oral Sex, Sex, implications of physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberMathWitch/pseuds/Koren%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she turns and looks at him, his familiar eyes and beautiful, bruised face, and it's not the fact that she cannot hide from him. she feels she doesn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom pain (Natasha)

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to Koren M for all her help, discussion and co-writing efforts; and everything she did to help and make this happen. :)

The worst thing that could happen to the mistress of the maze is to lose her own thread. To have it taken, cut off, lost.

 

*

She knows she breaks out running, like a chased animal. She knows she calls him and that the comm link cracks in her ear and she hears Clint's voice is asking repeatedly what's wrong. She leaves everything, leaves her work unfinished, and finds the patio – cold night and fresh air and her bare feet on the concrete, but nothing feels real enough. Her back is against the glass wall, and she's slipping down onto the floor and her mind is slipping from her grasp, heart beating and thoughts rushing when he finds her.

“Natasha,” his voice is crisp and steady, clear like the cold air, and his hand is strong on her forearm. “Nat? What happened?"

His face is right there but she's losing focus, her mind spins and spins and spins and she's trying to breathe, and his hands are there, but they're not and she tries to grab him, hold onto him and fails. “Nat,” she hears again and he tries to hold her up and she feels so heavy and almost like she might fly apart.

“- drugs,” she manages.

“God damn,” he mutters and he still holds her up even while she's slipping and there's shouting. She is disoriented, she is falling, there's a gunshot and a struggle and then Clint and his arms, carrying her away.

 

*

He tries to keep her awake, but she's just barely there. It's a sedative, it's something designed to make her useless, immobile, and heavy. She's falling forward as he drives and his hand keeps her up, he keeps calling her, he keeps asking things and she tries to respond, in English, in German, and languages get mixed and she barely knows what she's trying to say. 

By the time they're inside she's slipping into Russian and starts slipping into the past and tries to struggle out of it. There's carpet under her feet but she remembers concrete and brown ceramic tiles which were always wet, always slippery, and cold, constantly cold.

She can hear water running and his voice but in her mind another voice is saying, You were a bad little girl and for that you will be punished.

“Natasha,” he says and his hold is steady and he's there in front of her. His arm goes around her and he's unzipping her dress. “Let me help you, okay?” he asks and she nods and holds onto his arm, but her mind is slipping back again.

“Niet, niet, niet -”

“Natasha,” he says firmly and he's guiding her inside the shower, brushing her hair back from her face. Her hair falls around her and she feels so small, six years old with scissors cutting next to her ear and a cold hand pulling at her hair. She looks back and sees her bare feet, sees the red falling around them, fading into the concrete floor along with her. 

She screams. 

The water rushes over her face, over her, warm and prickly and real. Arms hold her and distantly she hears his voice, “Natasha, Natasha” but she refuses to open her eyes until he shakes her. “Look at me,” he says and she does and the water is pouring over them both. She pleads with him not to cut her hair and to let her go, and tells him that she's cold, so cold but he keeps holding her and the water gets warmer and then his hand is running up her arm and he's tilting her face to his. 

“- look at me, Tasha,” he says. His voice is lower, softer, something she knows, and she opens her eyes and tries to stay with him, she tries so damn hard, even though she can't understand why he's here. There was no one there. “Come on, baby. Look at me. Look at me.”

“ - my hair, not my hair, not my hair -” she says, she can't stop and he shakes his head and his hand is still steady against her face. 

“I won't cut your hair,” he says and his voice is firm, almost enough for her to latch on and hold. 

“Not my hair, please not my hair,” she continues to plead and he's asking her to look at him, just look at him, because he's saying you're safe baby, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here, nobody touches you.

She's pulled in against his chest, feels wet fabric over hard muscle and he's warm and not cold like the tiles of the walls before. That's different, that's familiar, even safe. They slip to the shower floor and the water is warm and the soap smalls like flowers and his hands seem so big, so strong. He rubs her arms, squeezes her shoulders, washes her face as he kneels next to her. She leans into him, heavily, even though she wants to run away and leave her skin and heavy limbs and short breaths, but his voice keeps her there. 

“Come on, baby,” he says. “Come on, deep breaths,” he says and she's leaning against him, head falling to his shoulder and his chest against her back. She tries, takes one deep breath and then another and another and her head spins less. “That's it. You're okay, you're better,” he repeats and she starts to believe it.

“Tired,” she manages and she feels him nod, his head close to hers.

“Yeah. Yeah, I bet you are.” He's standing up in front of her and then picking her up and helping her to stand on her own feet. “I know you are.” She stays braced against him, and starts to notice her surroundings. She sees he's wearing his shirt and underwear, both soaked through; then he's leading her out of the shower. There's a towel and and he's gentle as he pats her dry. He asks before he touches her hair and she nods and looks at him. There's something familiar about this, about him asking and looking into her eyes, and she finds that she trusts him even though she still can't quite remember why.

He finishes undressing her and pulls a dry shirt over her head and she stands there, smoothing it down and looking around, trying to figure out where they are, but she can't quite make it make sense. He dries his own hair, changes and when his hands settle on her shoulders again, the spinning stops.

“Let's put you to bed,” he says and she lets him lead her and guide her down.

 

*

When she wakes up, she's warm. Warm all over, from her head to her toes, and it feels good, heavy and soft and she thinks about how she should move, but she really doesn't want to.

She's in a bed, her head next to a pillow, and she's curled into herself but her hand is reaching out. She knows it's Clint that's next to her before she even opens her eyes, she recognizes that before anything else; it's his scent, his warmth, the rhythm of his breathing right next to her hand.

She flexes her fingers, reaches a bit further, and he's there, the warm skin of his chest and steady beat of his heart and the notion of being safe slowly comes to life inside of her. It starts in her toes, in her fingers, it spreads like breaths and blood and it pulses through her, seizing her bit by bit, dim and distant like dawn light, making it's way steadily to a new day, new light. Her body uncurls, loosens, and she opens her eyes.

It's dark except for a lonely lamp in the corner of the room. Light spills from it, barely reaching the far corners and it's just right, unobtrusive and quiet, and her head is still not completely clear. She remembers, abstractly, what happened. She remembers being drugged, and how she blacked out, and she closes her eyes and concentrates on the things around her, the sensations within her grasp. Next to her Clint takes a deep breath and breathing on her own is somehow easier with him near. 

He carried her. He protected her.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. There's a bruise on his cheek, spilling like oil over water, and she winces at the sight. It must have hurt, it must be painful still, but he seems peaceful in his sleep, quiet and calm like the surface of the sea. She could tread the water and dive, but she doesn't want to disturb the balance of light and shadow on his skin, on familiar play of lines around his eyes and rough features softened by memories and words and touch, and everything laid between them, in endless space between her fingertips and his chest.

“Feeling better?” he asks, and yes, she should have known. He's so aware of her, it should unnerve her, but right now it doesn't. He knows her and it's a fact like the air and her skin and slow breaths passing between them. He knows her. She holds onto this thought.

“Yes,” she says and considers the space within her mind, the clarity of her thoughts. “It's gone away. Mostly. I think."

“Good,” his voice is heavy like a blanket covering her and drawing her closer, so she shifts and moves. He opens his eyes and she meets the familiar stormy blue, darker in the faint light of the room.

“That looks bad,” she traces his cheek.

“Should have seen the other guy,” he jokes and his lips tilt upward even though his eyes are concerned. His hand covers the side of her face, her cheek fitting into his palm, strong and powerful over her. That hand, his hands, she remembers his hands, she remembers bits of the previous evening (was it previous evening? How long was she asleep? Does it matter, now when she doesn't have to take care of it all by herself?) and his hands reaching through the blur of her memories, reaching out to her, reaching her. His thumb falls over her lips gently, and she kisses it. He closes his eyes and she turns her face to kiss his palm, trades his blessings for her benedictions. 

She moves closer, because he's here and she knows that she is safe with him. She senses it in her skin and muscles, knows it like she knows her hair winding around her; she learns it like she learns the patterns of his steps and the lines on his palm. She is the one with an eye for detail. The axis of her world had shifted but only now she realizes its direction, where he is her gravity and she is his wind.

She can feel him smiling into her kiss, hear it in his breath, find the reflection of it in his eyes when she looks at him.

“I'm glad you're okay,” he says as they slowly connect, tangle together, arms and legs and his chest against hers. They have shirts and he's in his underwear, but there's plenty of bare skin and she likes how she can feel it wherever she reaches. But she doesn't miss how he winces when she presses against his shoulder blade.

“What was that?” she asks and he shrugs.

“I didn't look. You can look at it in the morning,” he says and lets her kiss him again. It's all she wants to do right now, just be here and feel this, all of it: the closeness, the sheets and his skin and this new idea; the knowledge of being cared for.

“I'll look,” she agrees, following his heartbeat down his throat and sealing her devotion on his shoulder. His hand is on her arm, waiting there and when she looks at him, his eyes are searching hers. 

“Tasha? Can I -?” he touches a strand of red, her hair, still just as long as it was. She nods and swallows as his hand gets lost in the red of her; it feels just as good and safe as everything else. Her hair is wrapped around his fingers, and she is wrapped around him, and something slides and locks, a misplaced piece finally finding it's fit.

Yes, you can, she thinks, you can do anything to me now. It remains unspoken, but it's loud and clear in her mind echoing while she's falling back to sleep.

 

*

She wakes again to a stream of daylight and the smell of coffee. There's an empty space on the right side of the bed, but it doesn't give her a feeling of loneliness. She reaches out and touches his pillow and her lungs fill with the scent he left in his place. She buries her face in it, hiding herself and the expression that's washing over her face. Then she starts to stretch, tests her muscles and her bones. Her body feels like hers again, and she sits up slowly, taking in the room around her. There's a table with one chair next to it, and the other chair is pulled close to the bed, serving as a nightstand. 

He arrives before she's finished processing all of it, and she has to stop and think about the fact that he's bringing her food, in bed. She's not sick and she can get up and go to the kitchen just fine, and it occurs to her that to someone else this might even seem romantic. Only it's not, because that's not who they are. But he has the plate, with cheese and bread and one large cup of coffee and he sits down next to her, and suddenly she's hungry. 

The bread is soft and the cheese is wonderful and he smiles at her when she reaches for the coffee. He gives it to her and there's something sad about his eyes, even though his expression is the familiar patience and calm she's used to seeing on him. The bruise on his cheek is still there, and looks worse in the light, but she knows he's strong and he will heal. 

The light and time of day and his moods do interesting things to his eyes, giving them different hues and colors. They're shades of blue right now, deep like a storm and uncommon in the bright light that's catching on his hair.

“What is it?” he asks and she smiles, taking another bite.

“Just watching you,” she replies as she eats and there's a smile, slow and subdued, quiet like a new word just learned and never tested, that passes between them. He makes wonderful coffee. He makes other wonderful things with his hands, and she often wonders how he can do that, and how her own hands are so often incapable of anything except bringing harm. He starts to get up, but she suddenly doesn't want him to leave, doesn't want him to even move from her side and she catches his arm.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To get my coffee,” he says, so she hands him her cup instead and uses a smile to convince him to share. It feels like asking, almost like she's begging him to remain here, close, so she can feel the solid weight of him on the bed next to her legs. He takes a sip, then another and something about the way he sets the cup aside, how he watches her, something makes her chest ache so powerfully. She removes the plate from her lap and shifts closer as she thinks how to ask the thing she wants to ask of him.

How is she supposed to tell him that she wants to hold him until her palms hurt and her arms and sides ache?

“Let me see now,” she says and starts to inspect his cheek. It's blue and purple and he must have been hit hard. She knows he had to fight someone off to get them out of there, but she doesn't remember how many. The evidence is on him, how hard he fought and how fiercely he won. “God, Clint,” she says when she starts to lift his shirt and there's a bruise on his left side. “off with that,” she decides, because it's time for her to take care of him. He tries to take it off on his own, but the pain is obvious as he raises his arms and she does it for him. The bruises are bad, striking on his light colored skin. “I have something for this,” she says. “Wait here.”

She gets up and finds her legs are mostly steady. It takes her a little bit to find her duffel, and when she returns she brings his coffee cup and her remedy for bruises and shallow cuts. She takes a seat behind him and gives him the coffee. He drinks as she rubs the oil between her palms, and he grunts softly when they connect with his shoulders.

“Just relax,” she says and starts rubbing in slow circles, keeping the pressure light but steady. Her palms are touching to heal now, and it's conscious and new. It's not just patching up the cuts and running for shelter, and it's not something she does for herself. It's different, this way her fingers are seeking for new bruises and old scars, aching to heal them. He abandons his coffee and sets the cup aside, leaning forward and exposing all of his back for her to reach. 

There's something about this, how he gives himself over, that makes her throat and chest tight. The tension low in her body is a familiar one by now, after they've rolled on the mats and rolled in bed afterward. She gently pulls on his shoulder, so he sits up. Maneuvering him against the headboard is easy and he relaxes against the pillows and then she's kissing him. His lips find that tension in her and he reacts, and she can feel his body wanting to meet hers when he pulls her close.

“No,” she smiles against his lips. “You won't be doing anything this time.”

He grins and watches as she works his pants open. His hips buck when she reaches inside, when her fingers find him hard and ready for her. She pulls the pants down his hips and what she sees is known, familiar; it's intimate and hers – the spot near his hip where he's ticklish, a small scar on the juncture of his thigh and hip. They're hers to know now, and she kisses them, those spots where he's soft and vulnerable before she takes him into her mouth.

She closes her eyes and listens to sounds he's making, each time her lips move, ease off and then take him back inside. Strong fingers thread into her hair and he guides her, shows her how; urges her to what he likes, what makes him even harder. She strokes his thighs and teases him with her tongue, she loses herself in his moans and they way he's reacting. Then his hips buck sharply and he pulls her hair and calls her name in a warning.

“I'll come if you keep this up,” he says, sounding breathless. His eyes are bright and dark when she smiles and moves to straddle him. She has no underwear and she's wet and ready. His mouth drops open and his eyes slip shut when he feels her on and around him. Then she moves, slowly, and each soft sound, each moan hits her in the chest and spreads from there. He opens his eyes, glassy and filled with lust. “I want to see you,” he says. 

She will give him anything, anything he wants, anything at all so she strips off the shirt he gave her the night before. He pulls her to him then, to taste her mouth and her breasts and holds her hips as she rides him.

“Are you close?” he asks and she swallows and nods. “I want to see you.”

His hand is right there between her legs, and she covers his fingers with her own.

“Come on, baby. Let me see you. Let me see you come,” he says and she guides his fingers like he guided her mouth. He's saying it, over and over, and the release is calling for her, absolution and abandon and complete surrender but it's okay, because his hands are there, just like last night and he'll catch her again when she shatters. 

She comes and moans and collapses over him; she feels when his orgasm hits him and they're both caught in it, shuddering and clinging to each other, until the tension slowly leaves them, and there's only warmth and breath and the sound of two beating hearts.

 

*

 

Her hair is in tangles, nasty snarls from having been wet but not properly washed or brushed. The brush alone isn't going to help, not without pulling and cursing and breaking, so she starts the water in the shower and digs her shampoo out of her bag. It's one of few luxuries she allows herself. Mission clothes and accompanying jewelry don't count, but things to take care of her hair always come with her.

She steps into the shower and the memory of it is blurred but not disturbing. Most of her memories are of Clint, of his arms and his chest behind her, living and breathing and warm, instead of cold walls closing in on her. She tells herself it's all a bad dream now, it's in the past, she is done with it. Never again, she thinks and closes her eyes and starts to wash her hair.

“Hey,” his voice prompts her to open her eyes. She bites her lip as she watches him. He's come in to use the bathroom, and it strikes her how normal this feels, how intimate and ordinary and completely new, all at the same time. “Need help there?” he asks and she considers it briefly. Then she decides she wants him next to her, wants to have him here now when her mind is clear and her eyes are open so she nods and he steps inside.

He stands behind her, hands on shoulders as the water pours over their bodies. “Is this okay?” he asks and she remembers those bits, she remembers pleading with him and how he didn't touch her hair. Instead he kept holding her, keeping her together until she could do it on her own.

“Will you wash it for me?” she asks, her voice a little distant. When his hands settle in her hair she closes her eyes and knows that nothing bad will happen. He's slow and thorough, he treats her hair just like he treats her, with respect, with strength and gentleness. He rinses it and then turns her around to face him and kisses her and she gives in. She feels the wall against her back and he is against her front and his hand is between her legs. She watches him watching her as he pushes and pushes and pushes until she breaks and quietly wrecks against him. Then it's her hand wrapped around his length and his face in the crook of her shoulder and the water drowning their sounds.

Later, they sit on the bed, with him still behind her and she lets him dry her hair and gently brush it.

“Tasha?” he asks softly.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She turns and looks at him, his familiar eyes and beautiful, bruised face, and it's not the fact that she cannot hide from him. She feels she doesn't have to.

“My mother...,” she considers this thought as she begins. It's old but it was shapeless before. “My mother loved my hair,” she stops and looks at him, feeling certain and grounded by his eyes. “ - and they took it. It was the first thing they took from me. Later... they took my mind. They'd give me drugs and they told me who I was when I woke up. But they forgot to cut my hair.”


End file.
